Highlights
by sangga
Summary: Harper-angst. Coda to 'Fear and Loathing'..."You think you can scare me, boy? I've been tortured by Nietzcheans." - "What a coincidence - so have I. Wanna see some highlights?"


****

Title: Highlights

Author: sangga

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine, don't own, please don't sue.

Email: **sangga55hotmail.com**

Archive: Please email, and it's yours.

Summary_: "You think you can scare me, boy? I've been tortured by Nietzcheans ." – "What a coincidence – so have I. Wanna see some highlights?"_

Note: Harper-angst. Coda to 'Fear and Loathing', which happens to be one of my all-time faves. By the way, if anybody out there is waiting for the rest of 'Leper10' (or anything else I've been writing, come to think of it), please hold your breath a little longer, it's on the way. Been working on another fic that's been kicking my butt…sorry, not much longer now.

Spoilers: Season One – 'Fear and Loathing in the Milky Way'.

Feedback: No applause, just throw money.

****

Highlights

__

"You think you can scare me, boy? I've been tortured by Nietzcheans."

"What a coincidence – so have I. Wanna see some highlights?"

They're in the Maru's kitchenette, Trance perched on the countertop while Harper busies himself at the stove. He's been trying to introduce her to the delights of a well-made bolognaise sauce, which, given that she doesn't eat meat, has been proving something of a challenge. That's okay, he likes a challenge. He sifts some dried herbs into the pot, stirs with one hand and holds his beer with the other, while she examines the whole process, intent.

She's quiet. She's been thinking.

"You really hated working for Gerentex, didn't you?

He licks the spoon to check the flavour, which she doesn't know is bad manners.

"Gee, Trance, whatever gave you that impression?" He catches her look. "Yeah, I hated working for him.

Tundra flowers and all aside, I still think he's an asshole."

"You laid into him pretty hard."

"He cheesed me off." Speaking of cheese, he casts around in the cupboards for some, muttering under his breath. "Goddamn petty dictators…they're all alike."

She's been leading up to it, but she still broaches the subject gently.

"You said before…you said you'd been tortured by Nietzcheans."

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure." His words are stiff – obviously reluctant to talk.

"When you were young…"

"Yeah." He can see from her face that she expects more details. "I mean, who wasn't?"

"What happened?"

"Ah, y'know. Me and my cousin stole some stuff, they beat the crap out of us. The usual."

His face has darkened. She doesn't usually like to pry, but she thinks she'd like to know this time.

"What did you steal?"

"God, I dunno. I forget." He catches her expression. "I dunno – food. Some dried meat, I think. That used to get a good price on the blackmarket.

"Sounds risky."

"Yeah, it was kinda stupid. But that's what we did – I mean, we had to survive. We just lucked out that time."

"How old were you?"

"Fifteen, fourteen. Something like that."

He stirs the pot. She's obviously pushing at a still-tender wound. She steels herself for the backlash and keeps prodding.

"And what happened?"

"You really wanna _know_?" He looks paler – it could be the kitchen lights. But his voice is the giveaway. Hard. Bitter. "It was four grown men against two kids. They beat us to a pulp. I think Brendan wet his pants before they even got us home."

She frowns.

"Why did they take you home? I thought –"

"They wanted us to suffer, okay?" He takes a deep breath, trying to marshal himself. "That's how it works – you screw up, and you whole family cops it bad."

She can't help but notice how he's slipped into present tense.

"That's terrible."

His face is tight. He's not angry with _her_, but –

"Yeah, that's just how it was."

"But didn't your family –"

"God, what is this, twenty questions?"

He throws the spoon back into the pot. She slides off the bench to meet him squarely.

"Harper, I didn't mean to –"

"What, don't you believe me?" His voice is rising. "You wanna see some highlights too? Here – is that enough?"

His face alive with anger now, he's pulled up his shirt on his right side, over his kidneys, pushing the sight of his skin into the light. There's a long white scar, stretching around his midriff, arcing up across his back to the ribs, and a dozen more silvery striations scattered across his lower back. They go up under his shirt, leaving her to imagine what his shoulders must look like. Whipmarks. She gasps. She must have a dreadful expression on her face, because his voice drops sharply.

"Nice, huh? That's – hm, lemme think – oh yeah, electrical cord and a belt buckle. Nietzcheans are great improvisers."

She can hardly talk. She can't take her eyes off the scars.

"What…what happened to your family?"

"They were lucky – there was an advance warning." He's talking, but she can see it in his face, can see him retreating. "My brother and my dad got out, my mom and my sister had a…a chance to hide."

She touches the scar at his side with cold fingers, and he flinches, like there's a ghost pain. His voice is a thick mutter, he's staring into the corner.

"That one…that one's from a piece of mirror. They knew, see – they knew from the mirror that there were women in the house. They wanted to know where they were, and I…wouldn't tell 'em."

He swallows and closes his eyes. She doesn't need to ask why the Dragons wanted to find his female relatives. Her gaze flicks from his profile to his back, and her fingers trace the lines there like a whisper.

"Harper, you don't have to –"

He doesn't seem to hear her.

"It's funny…I think the whipping hurt more, cuz when they sliced me I hardly felt it. I mean, it just felt kinda…airy. Ventilated. Weird, y'know?"

She nods, but he can't see the movement.

"I mean, everyone thought I was gonna die. I nearly did die, but not from the cut – it was the secondary infection…there was no medicine…"

She lets her fingers slide away, and when she folds his shirt back down he shivers and sighs. He's terribly pale – he looks like he's deflated. She feels horrible now for putting him through it, watching him lean against the counter with his eyes closing and opening. She thinks of shock symptoms – when he opens his mouth to speak, his voice is quiet, slurring.

"Can we…can we not talk about this anymore?"

She nods, not knowing what to do, to touch him, or comfort him… She settles for putting his beer on the counter in front of him, and taking his place by the stove.

The pot bubbles, and for a long while it's the only sound in the room. She stirs it tentatively, starts when she hears his voice.

"You need to add some salt."

She fumbles through the condiments, casting a quick sideways glance over at where he's listing against the counter, swigging his beer in a slow dazed way.

Steam rises from the pot, and she thinks of his silvery scars, and wonders if she'll ever feel warm again.

__

Fin


End file.
